Chapter 3: A stranger's kiss

Last night was a horror show on loop. I tossed so hard the sheets twisted like restraints, my pillow soaked with tears and mascara streaks. 

 Was it the betrayal that clawed deepest, or the way Daniel weaponized our childlessness? I couldn’t decide. Both felt like knives twisting in tandem.

 The alarm shrieked at 11:00 a.m. I glared at it like it had personally insulted me, then rolled out of bed with hair that looked like a bird’s nest after a hurricane. Eye bags? Check. Motivation? Missing in action.

 Today is technically free. I shuffled to the ensuite, splashed cold water on my face, and tried not to look at the empty side of the vanity where Daniel’s cologne usually sat. The silence screamed.

 Movement outside the window caught my eye. Daniel’s black Escalade rolled through the gates. My stomach lurched. I wasn’t ready to see him. Not after last night. Not ever.

 Then Alex, Daniel’s driver, hopped out and popped the trunk. Pink box. Huge. Then another. Then a monogrammed suitcase the color of cotton candy.

 "This isn't Daniel's box!" I shouted as if talking to imaginary people in the room.

 Then coming out of the car was Daniel and Kisha!

 My jaw dropped so fast I felt it in my toes.

 I flew downstairs, robe flapping like a cape. “What is going on?” My voice came out half-roar, half-squeak.

 Daniel didn’t even glance up from his phone. “The mother of my child is moving in.” He said it casual, like he was announcing takeout. The words sliced clean through me. He said it intentionally, I know it! He said it to spite me and yes it's working.

 “No!” I planted myself at the foot of the staircase.

 “No, she cannot come into our matrimonial home, Daniel!” I said finally finding my voice after what seemed like moment's long.

 He finally looked at me—eyebrow arched, amused. “Says who?”

 “Daniel, we are still married!” My voice cracked but I powered through. “Take her somewhere else. We cannot live under the same roof. It’ll wreck my mental health!”. At this point, I was fighting back alot of tears so hard. Why would Daniel do this to me, just few hours after I agreed to his shitty plan of an open marriage and now this. 

 He paused halfway up the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other stretched toward the front door like a game-show host. 

 “Door’s wide open, honey. Nobody’s forcing you to stay. Last I checked, this is my house. I bring in whoever I want.”

 Kisha giggled—actually giggled—as he tugged her past me. Alex trailed behind with the pink parade of luggage. Their laughter echoed off the marble like bullets.

 I clutched my chest, gasping. The room spun. Three days ago we were tangled in these same sheets, whispering I love you between kisses. Now he was moving his pregnant mistress into our home like I was a roommate he’d forgotten to evict.

 I stumbled outside, lungs burning. Fresh air—need fresh air. My eyes landed on Daniel’s precious Tesla. Before my brain caught up, I’d snatched a ceramic flower vase from the porch planter.

 Crash. 

 The driver-side window exploded in a glitter of glass. Rage tasted metallic on my tongue. I grabbed a garden stake next—crack, crack, crack—until every window was a spiderweb.

 The compound was massive; the penthouse soundproof. They didn’t hear a thing.

 My car keys were in my Jean pocket—thank God for small mercies. I slid behind the wheel of my white Benz and peeled out, tires squealing like my heart.

 I drove straight to Dr. Ellis, my therapist. She listened, nodded, handed me tissues like a bartender hands out napkins. 

 “Take a long drive,” she said. “Clear the static.”

 Two hours later I was still driving, D.C. suburbs blurring into Virginia countryside. My phone stayed dark—no texts, no apologies. Just GPS and Taylor Swift on blast.

 Eventually I pulled into a roadside bar. Inside smelled like wings and regret.

 I slid onto a stool. “Fill it up and keep ’em coming,” I told the bartender, voice raw.

 “Long day?” He grinned, polishing a glass.

 I ignored him, downed the whiskey in one fiery gulp. The burn was nothing compared to the inferno in my chest. 

 “More.”

 A mvement to my left. A masculine shadow. Then all of a sudden—his lips rested coldly on mine. It was soft, warm, unexpected. 

 My brain short-circuited. I spun with anger and rage, my fist already cocked, I raised my hands to slap him, but his strong hand caught my wrist mid-swing.

 “Please,” a low voice murmured against my ear as he pulled me into a quick hug. “Just go with the flow. I’ll explain in a sec.”

 He smelled like cedar and trouble. Tall, tailored navy suit, dark curls, eyes the color of storm clouds. He kept hold of my hand—gentle but firm—thereby taking notice of my wedding ring with a flicker of surprise. He smiled a little as if he had just hit the jackpot. 

 “Walk with me?” he asked, urgent. “I’m negotiating a merger. High-stakes contractors. They think I’m a bachelor, which does not go well with their rules. Please—pretend to be my wife. It’s life or death for the deal.”

 I blinked. Is this man insane?

 But something in his eyes—panic wrapped in charm—tugged at me. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the cosmic joke of the day. I nodded.

 He beamed, threaded his fingers through mine like we’d done it a thousand times, and led me across the scarred wood floor. Three suits a

t a corner booth looked up, shark smiles ready.

 “Gentlemen, my apologies,” he said, smooth as the whiskey still coating my throat. 

 “Forgot to introduce my better half. She’s shy—hates the spotlight. Meet my lovely wife… Mrs. Christopher.”